Chapter 1383: A pebble for an avalanche(5)

A thick wave of revulsion roiled through Vilon’s gut at the sight.

He was no maiden freshly picked from a village; he had grown grimly familiar with blood and the art of killing. But it was one thing to face a man with a drawn sword in his hand, and another entirely to stare at the mangled, helpless flesh of a captive stripped of any chance to fight back.

Then, like a splash of lye to an open wound, the memories came rushing back. He remembered the boy weeping in the grass with a shattered collarbone. He remembered the cold steel driving into his own chest, the knee on his ribs, the maniacal laughter, and the yellowed teeth bared in triumph as he drowned.

The brief flicker of pity melted away in an instant.It fish-hooked it right out of his chest.

He wouldn’t have batted an eye were I the one hanging from that beam.Mayhaps he would have laughed and pissed on me.

Vilon wondered how many people this brute had butchered, raped, or tortured, how many victims would look upon this bloody carcass and call it divine justice. Far too many, no doubt.

Still, knowing the dog deserved the whip didn’t make the sight of the kennel any easier to stomach.

"Owen! Stay outside!" Vilon barked over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around.

"Outside, ser?" came the boy’s voice, laced with confusion.

"Outside."

A heavy pause lingered at his back before he heard the nimble, obedient crunch of his squire’s boots fading away across the grass.

The boy didn’t need to see this. He had seen enough dark things to last three lifetimes.

"Suit yourself, ser," muttered the auburn-haired Hound, Selm, as he slunk into the gloom beside Mariol and Captain Saron. "Though if you ask me, a knight ought to harden his boy’s belly to blood and guts both. Squires ride into battle right at their master’s stirrup. Better for the lad to vomit his broth here than turn his head when a spear is coming for his neck."

"The boy has already tasted full war, and he carries a stouter stomach for it than I do," Vilon replied, his voice flat and distant. "He stood at the Bastion and bled at the Ford both."

Behind him, Mariol let out a low, appreciative whistle. "That lad? What is he, fifteen?"

"Fourteen when he marched south," Vilon said softly, his gaze fixed on the swaying figure in the dark. "Rode out with ten other boys from his village. He was the only one who came back. I met him in the staging camps before the Ford. We struck a quick friendship, and he chose to follow my dust after the blood cleared."

As he spoke, Vilon’s eyes slowly traced the ruined form of his defeated enemy. He took in the shattered posture, the hanging head, the flayed fingers, and the raw, bloody meat where his toenails used to be. The Hounds had left his yellowed, crooked teeth intact, clearly, they hadn’t needed to go that far. The man’s tongue had wagged fast enough once the pliers bit into his feet.

If he already sang, why is he still hanging here?

Logen’s entire frame trembled. His bloodshot eyes remained shut, as if he lacked even the courage to cast a shadow in the pale sunbeam. He was a broken thing. The terrifying, cackling killer from the creek was gone, replaced by a hollow shell shivering on the tips of its bloody toes.

Vilon tried to summon the cold rage he had felt under Logen’s dagger, but all he felt now was a deep, exhausting ache. He found himself wishing he had a sword in his hand just to put an end to it, to thrust clean through the ribs and grant the dog a merciful, quiet death.

That was the right thing to do. The honorable thing. The trouble was whether he dared to step between the Hounds and their meat, for Saron’s men were clearly not finished playing.

"Hey, mutton!" Captain Saron called out with a sharp, booming laugh. "Come now, raise that ugly head of yours and look at an old friend! Returned straight from the Weaver’s embrace!"

Vilon had crossed paths with a decurio or two during his time in the grand camps. Those officers had seemed carved from mountain granite, men who drank discipline like mother’s milk and broke their fast on cold austerity. It felt absurd, to see a captain bearing the royal black and white act with such wild, irreverent cheer. Though, true enough, the rumors held that among all the legions under the Yarzat Sun, the Hounds were the most unruly, unchivalrous pack of mongrels in the south. Unprincipled, perhaps, but fiercely steadfast to their quarry.

The rumors, it seemed, had not lied.

Logen’s eyelids fluttered open, his small eyes squinting painfully against the sunlight before panning across the three Hounds and settling, finally, on Vilon. The knight had expected the torture to have shattered the old mercenary’s spirit entirely, but beneath the agony, a flicker of raw, animal malice still burned.

"YOU..." Logen hissed, his voice like grinding stones.

Thump.

Saron’s iron gauntlet sank buried straight into Logen’s swollen gut.

The captive doubled over as far as the taut rope permitted, spewing a mouthful of bloody bile onto the dirt floor, groaning in sheer agony.

That punch knocked all the fight out of him.

"Is that any way to greet old companions back from the dead?" the one-eyed captain chided playfully, reaching out to snag Logen’s matted beard and wrench his head back up. "The gods teach us to be kind to one another, don’t they, mutton? Do I need to get unpolite again?"

Logen violently shook his head, a pathetic, fearful whimper escaping his crushed nose.

Saron grinned, turning his lone eye toward Vilon. "Our dear knight here has no inkling of the grand prize he dropped right into our laps. Why don’t you enlighten the good ser, Logen? Sing him the song you sang for us."

Logen’s eyes darted to Vilon, filled with a mixture of terror and bitter shame. He worked his tongue inside his mouth, his jaw clenching. For a tense second, Vilon thought the bastard was gathering spit to fly into his face, but the man merely winced, choked down his bile, and rasped, "I... I entered the service of Lord Ratio of GrassHall. My father served his father as a man-at-arms before me, until the old bastard drank himself into a ditch. When my father died of the very same rot, I took up his mail. Served him loyal, I did! Three long years in exile at his side! No man in the principalities can say Logen Screw-Muse didn’t hold his oath!"

Mariol barked out a short laugh, leaning his back against the timber wall. "Aye, everyone knows the tale! ’Screw-Muse’ is nearly as famous as our own king!" He chuckled darkly. "And all men say he served right faithful and true... right up until the serving got hard and the coin ran dry."

Vilon looked from Mariol to Saron, a heavy frown creasing his brow as total confusion took hold. "Who is Lord Ratio of Grass Hall?"

"A nasty little toad the smallfolk took on themselves to give a name. Perhaps you heard?It’s the Vulture Lord," Mariol supplied smoothly with a smile, crossing his arms over his chest. "You’d know the name if you spent five minutes listening to the tavern talk down the highway. He’s the bastard who put three hundreds to the sword and many fields to the torch last moon and cut up many of our men. And from the way old Screw-Muse here sang under the pliers, it seems you’ve already shared a camp with the Vulture himself."

Vilon’s face darkened, his jaw setting hard. He suddendly felt the lack of his sword, not that he would have served him much, even a child could get the best of him now. "I have never harbored bandits, nor will I ever. My steel is clean of such filth."

"No one is questioning your virtue, ser," Saron said, waving a casual, leather-clad hand. "Mariol is a grand killer, but a terrible speaker. What my soldier means to say is that you met the Vulture Lord on the high road, riding under your very nose, beside a trade caravan."

Vilon’s heart skipped a beat. The world seemed to tilt beneath his walker.

Could it be.....

"Rosh..." he breathed, the name falling off his lips like lead.

Captain Saron turned his lone eye back onto Logen, who offered a pathetic, blood-stained nod.

"Aye, ’Rosh’ was the name he babbled," Saron chuckled, a dark satisfaction lighting his face. "We were genuinely surprised to learn the grand Vulture was strolling freely through the western refugee camp. Seems he was scoping out our forward depots for a raid, but lost his appetite when he saw how tight our guards held the perimeter."

Saron stepped closer to Vilon, leaning in until the knight could smell the metallic tang of blood on his armor.

Vilon’s mouth worked uselessly, his jaw opening and closing like a landed fish, but no sound passed his ruined throat. The world spun in dizzying circles around him.

"Seems the grand knight still hasn’t grasped the size of the prize," Selm cackled from the shadows, leaning heavily against the timber wall. "Listen to me, ser, you just put an end to this bloody war for us! We just sent two riders up the ridge to verify the tales this dog babbled under the iron, and every word of it rings true. We know where the Vulture is roosting. We’ve been beating the bushes and burning the hills for six moons searching for that bastard, and you handed him to us on a silver platter with a bow tied round his neck! You’re in for a fat bag of gold, ser... a king’s reward for a king’s service."

"A reward..." Vilon repeated softly, the word tasting like ash on his tongue as he tried to piece together the bizarre tapestry of his luck.

He had ridden down to that creek for nothing more than a drink of cold water , a glimpse of some fair tits, and a moment’s peace. He had bled, nearly choked to death in his own mail, and watched a terrified boy die on the end of his hunting knife, all for what he thought was a handful of common border-trash.He had just wanted to help a woman in need. Now they were telling him he had broken the back of the realm’s most notorious bandit lord.

"Give the man a break, Selm," Saron roared, clapping a heavy, iron-gloved hand onto Vilon’s uninjured shoulder with enough force to make his wooden walker groan. "The good ser is up to his neck in it! Let me make it plain for you, ser. Fetch your saddle, gather your lad, and mount up on that thick-cock ,though not as thick as yours, stallion. We ride east before the sun hits the treeline."

The one-eyed captain leaned in close, his lone dark eye gleaming with the feral, bloodthirsty joy of a hound that had finally caught the scent of hare he’d been hunting for days.

"The King’s war-banner has been unfurled at Sevarioari," Saron whispered, a terrifying, bloody smile stretching across his scarred face. "Every legion stationed in Oizen has been called to arms. We ride to crush the Vulture... and you, ser, are riding at the head of the pack with us.I am sure some men would would be glad to make your acquaintance..."